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‘Very true, Miss Brown, but I will mention your talents to Mrs Briddle, our cook.’ His dark gaze searched her face. Against her will, her gaze roved over the elegant lines of his bronzed features. Definitely foreign looking. And that French accent made her toes curl. Mortification dipped her stomach. This must stop.
‘Miss Brown, I have the strangest feeling we have met,’ he said. ‘Before I went away to school, perhaps?’
Surely he would not recognise her as Lady Moonlight. ‘It is not possible, my lord.’ How breathless she sounded. She inhaled deeply, willing her pulse to stop its gallop. ‘We only moved here recently.’
‘In London, then?’
‘I’ve never been to London.’ Fortunately she hadn’t. With the deaths in her family, her come-out had been postponed for three years in a row and if she didn’t sort things out soon, would probably never occur. Not that she minded. Primping and simpering had never suited her temperament.
‘We lived in Hampshire—’ Sissy announced.
Eleanor gave her a little pinch to stop the flow of words.
‘Ouch,’ Sissy cried. She rubbed her arm and glared balefully at Eleanor.
Eleanor bent over her. ‘Oh dear, have you hurt yourself?’
‘No. You—’
‘Good.’ She straightened ‘This is our cottage, my lord.’ She pointed at the last dwelling in the row of five. Beyond it, fields of hay and ripening corn spread as far as the eye could see. ‘Thank you so much for your help.’ She took the basket from his grasp. ‘Come, Sissy.’
Uncomfortably aware of his gaze on her back, Eleanor kept her shoulders straight and her eyes firmly focused on her front door. She would not look back. Next time they met, she would be ready for him and his winsome smile.
Like a connoisseur of fine wine, Garrick savoured the gentle sway of Miss Brown’s hips and her proud carriage as she negotiated the wooden plank across the sluggish stream running alongside the road. As if she’d forgotten him completely, she opened the gate and walked up the short path through the unkempt patch of garden.
With guinea-gold hair pulled back beneath her plain straw bonnet and her serious expression, she presented a delicious picture of demure English womanhood. Somehow she put the sophisticated ladies of London in the shade. Prim and proper as she seemed, the confused blushes on the creamy skin of her face indicated an interest. None of his former loves had ever coloured so divinely. Although her wide-set, dove-grey eyes set in an oval face observed him coolly enough, they warmed to burnished pewter when she smiled with a heartstopping curve of two eminently kissable lips.
How extraordinary to find such a beauty in sleepy Boxted.
The feeling that he knew her remained. He combed his memory without success. Eventually he would remember. Miss Ellie Brown was not a female a man would easily forget. Not when the mere sight of her had pulled him away from his purpose at the inn. An instant attraction that was not plain old-fashioned lust, so swift to rouse when he’d kissed Lady Moonlight. Rather, the purity shining in her face had evoked a different kind of admiration. Not one he’d had much experience with. And yet the spark of innocent passion he’d sensed running beneath the modest appearance offered an irresistible challenge, even if it could result in no more than harmless dalliance for a day or two.
He returned Miss Sissy’s cheery wave as she followed her sister inside.
He frowned. The cottage, like the others in the row, sagged like an ancient crone. Mortar crumbled around the windows and patches of stone showed through the rendering. Nesting birds had pitted the moss-covered thatch, while the stench of stagnant water hung thick in the air. He narrowed his eyes. He hadn’t noticed any problems with the estate’s finances during his session with his uncle this morning, but in his father’s day, these cottages had been well-kept abodes. Perhaps he needed to look a little closer.
He turned his steps for the Wheat Sheaf where he’d abandoned his horse and his tankard of ale for a pretty face and a well-turned ankle. The local men must know something about the highway robbers. A glass of heavy wet should loosen their tongues.
Her heart having settled into its normal rhythm after her encounter with the Marquess, Eleanor set a batch of cakes to cool in the pantry. The sweet smell of baking reminded her of helping her mother in the medieval kitchen at Castlefield. The servants had grown accustomed to the sight of their Countess, the daughter of an impoverished gentleman parson, in a starched white apron over her gown and flour up to her elbows. As soon as Eleanor had been old enough to stand on a stool, she had loved helping Mother, breaking the eggs into a little cream-and-brown china bowl, learning the art of baking the lightest of confections, creating something from nothing. It was the only thing she and William had not done together, though he wolfed down the results of her efforts cheerfully enough.
Sweet memories. Best not to let them intrude. She shivered and rubbed her arms briskly against the chill. The fire, the bane of her existence, had gone out again. It seemed to have a mind of its own. A mean mind. Every time she turned her back, it died. Or it smoked.
She opened the outside door. Cuddling Miss Boots, a tabby cat of questionable heritage, Sissy sat reading in the shade of a straggly rosebush.
‘Fetch some wood, please, Sissy,’ Eleanor called out.
The child glanced up with a pout. ‘Why do I always have to fetch the wood?’
‘Please, don’t whine. I need your help. It’s not too much to ask.’
Sissy grumbled her way to her feet. Eleanor returned to her nemesis. This time she would make it behave.
For once, the paper spills caught with the first spark of the flint and the slivers of kindling flared to light with a puff of eye-stinging smoke. Where was Sissy?
Eleanor ran to the front door. Her jaw dropped. Sissy had her head beneath the bush apparently trying to rescue Miss Boots.
‘How could you?’ Eleanor cried. ‘You know I need firewood.’
Sissy jumped guiltily and dashed for the pathetic pile of logs against the wall. ‘Coming.’
‘Really, Sissy. I had it lit. Now the spills and the kindling are burned and I have to start over.’ Eleanor wanted to cry. She snatched the logs from her sister’s hands and hurried back inside while Sissy ran back for more.
Jaw gritted, she laid the fire once more. The tinderbox shook in her hand. She struck and it failed to spark. Calm down. She took a deep breath and struck it again. A tiny glow dropped on to the tight twist of paper.
‘Please light,’ she begged. The fire flared. ‘Hah.’ She nodded in triumph and balanced the logs on top. Now for tea. She marched to the pantry. Hearing Sissy’s steps behind her, she called out, ‘Put the rest of the wood on the hearth and then set the table.’ She tucked a loaf of bread under her arm and grabbed a pat of butter and a jar of jam.
Sissy screeched. Eleanor whirled around. A lump of soot lay on the floor, a black monster writhing with red glow-worm sparks. The rug at Sissy’s feet smouldered. At any moment it might burst into flame.
‘Sissy, move.’ Panic sent her voice up an octave.
The child remained glued to the spot, coughing as choking black smoke rose around her.
Heart pounding, Eleanor dropped everything and ran. She caught Sissy by the arm and thrust her out of the front door. She flew back inside.
Rubbing her eyes, Sissy poked her head in. ‘The rug is on fire.’
‘Stay there.’ Flames played among the ragged ends of the rug. Glowing soot took flight in the draught from the door and landed on the tablecloth. It flared up. Oh God, soon the whole place would be alight. She glanced wildly around. Her father’s calm voice echoed in her ears. Smother a fire.
She ran to the bedroom, pulled a blanket off the bed and ran back to toss it over the flames. Smoke billowed up. Vaguely, she heard Sissy screaming, ‘Fire!’
The door burst open. A tall figure loomed through the rolling smoke like a warrior wreathed in mist. He wrenched the blanket from the floor and beat the flames into submission. The burning tablecloth went out of the window. Water from the bucket by the sink sluiced over the rug.
Eleanor peered at her rescuer through streaming eyes.
The Marquess of Beauworth flapped the singed blanket, chasing the last of the smoke out through the open window. ‘Good thing I was riding by. It looks like the day King Alfred burned the cakes.’
She stiffened. ‘It was the chimney, not my baking.’
He grinned. He was teasing. She tried to smile back, but as her gaze roved around the disaster, her shoulders sagged. The rug was naught but a charred ruin. A few minutes more and the house might well have burned to the ground. Sissy might have been hurt. Her legs turned to water. Heart racing, she dropped down on the sooty sofa. ‘Thank you, my lord. I dread to think what might have happened had you not been on hand.’
He shrugged. ‘You seemed to have things under control.’
She hadn’t, but she was grateful for his kind words. Her heart slowly returned to normal and she looked around at the mess.
Sissy’s head appeared around the door. ‘Is it out?’
‘Yes,’ Eleanor said. ‘But don’t come in. There’s soot and water all over the place.’
‘Your horse is loose on the other side of the stream,’ Sissy said. ‘Won’t she run away?’
‘She won’t go anywhere without me,’ the Marquess replied with a smile.
Sissy’s head disappeared.
Eleanor pulled herself to her feet, her knees shaking and her hands trembling. She began to roll up the remains of the evil-smelling carpet.
‘Let me.’ The Marquess took the rug from her hands. It followed the tablecloth into the front garden, as did the blanket.
He glanced curiously around the room. How he must scorn their poverty, whitewashed plaster bellying from the damp stone walls, sticks of furniture acquired by Martin from who knew where. Lit by a lattice window, the room looked positively dreary. She hoped the shame did not show on her face.
‘I’m sorry I couldn’t save the rug.’ He sounded sorry. She hadn’t expected that and she smiled.
He grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners, his teeth flashing white against his soot-grimed face. He looked nothing like the elegant Marquess she’d met earlier. She giggled. ‘You look like a sweep.’
He dragged a sleeve across his brow. ‘No doubt.’
Taking the bucket to the door, she called out, ‘Sissy, fetch water from the well. Bring it back and then come inside.’
She turned back to her rescuer. ‘Will you take tea with us?’
He hesitated. What was she thinking, inviting someone like him to take tea? In her present circumstances, she was far beneath his touch. She tried to hide her chagrin with a diffident shrug.
He smiled and her heart did a back flip. ‘Yes, thank you.’
She knew she was beaming at him, but she couldn’t help it. She dashed for her pitcher of water in the bedroom. She filled a small bowl, setting a cloth, soap and towel alongside it.
‘Please,’ she said. ‘Use this to wash. There is a mirror above the sink.’
The Marquess stared at his blackened hands. ‘Good idea.’ He took off his jacket, something no gentleman would do in the presence of a lady, but she couldn’t hold it against him. Not when he’d saved them. He rolled up his shirtsleeves and she saw that his forearms were strong, corded with sinew that shifted beneath his tanned skin as he scrubbed. A shimmer of heat rose up her neck. A little squeeze in her chest made her gasp.
She shouldn’t be looking. She shifted her gaze to his back. It didn’t help. The way his broad shoulders moved beneath the fine cambric of his shirt created more little thrills. Her heart gave a jolt at the weird sensation. What on earth was wrong with her? This man was her enemy.
Do something else. Tea. She’d offered him tea. Set the table. That was it. Gaze averted, she hurried for the dresser. Where was Sissy with the water?
‘Miss Brown?’
‘Yes, my lord?’ She turned.
As he wiped his jaw with the damp cloth, his gaze travelled over her face in a long, slow, appraising glance. Heat rushed to her cheeks.
‘You look quite smutty yourself,’ he said with a smile. He reached out with the cloth and dabbed at her nose. She couldn’t breathe. She snatched at the cloth.
Laughing, he caught her hands in his large warm one and wiped them clean. Such strong hands. She seemed bereft of the will to move.
He stepped back, his head cocked to one side. ‘You know, you have a streak on your chin. If you will allow me?’
Her heart thundered in her chest. Her body clenched with another delicious thrill as the tips of his fingers, feather light on her jaw, tilted her chin towards the light. She held perfectly still, afraid she might do something rash like place her hands on his shoulders for support. Her pulse raced unmercifully as gently, softly, he dabbed her chin, her cheek, her nose, the water delightfully cold on her heated skin.
Long dark lashes hid his eyes as he lowered his gaze to his task. The scent of sandalwood cologne and smoke filled her nostrils. His expression softened, then his glance flicked up and caught her watching.
Amber glowed like sunbeams in the depths of his warm brown eyes. He bent his head and his parted lips hovered above hers. Heat radiated from his body and her heart skipped and thudded.
She struggled to catch a breath, as if something tight restricted her ribs, and feared he would hear the soft pants for air she couldn’t control.
His cheekbone filled her vision, clearly defined above a lean suntanned cheek. A whisper away from her skin, his dark brown hair curled at his temple. She held her breath, while her heart raced wildly. For the life of her she couldn’t move. Didn’t want to.
He brushed his lips across her mouth, warm and dry and soft. A mere whisper of the kiss he’d given her in the dark on a moonlit road.
A lightning bolt seemed to shoot through her body, hot yet pleasurable. She stiffened in shock.
‘I’ve been wanting to do that since the moment I saw you,’ he said, his voice carrying on a warm puff of breath against her chin.
She shivered, her mind a blank to everything except trembling anticipation.
A smile dawned slowly, lazy and sensuous. She could not tear her gaze from his mouth. He slid one hand behind her neck. ‘You are very pretty, Ellie.’
His husky voice seduced her ears. He was the sun and she the moon, pulled inexorably into his orbit. She leaned closer. He dropped the cloth and enfolded her in his arms, his hand spanning the arch of her back, his breath warming her lips.
What was she doing? It felt so right, but was very, very wrong.
The door crashed back on its hinges.
Eleanor jumped back. The Marquess turned away, but not before she saw a glimmer of rueful amusement in those warm brown eyes.
‘Here you are,’ Sissy announced. Water from the bucket slopped over her shoes. She glanced around. ‘Gracious, and after you spent all day yesterday cleaning.’
Eleanor busied herself clearing the table and wiping away the soot, praying that Sissy would not notice her heated face or agitated breathing. ‘Put some water in the kettle and the rest in the sink.’ Her voice sounded different, throaty, rough.
The Marquess grabbed the bucket. ‘Let me. That is far too heavy a load for such a small person.’ He poured water in the kettle and hung it over the traitorously merry fire.
Eleanor laid the table and, while the water boiled, she covered the old wooden table with another threadbare cloth, dusted off the bread and pot of jam she’d dropped unceremoniously on the floor and brought cakes from the pantry. The Marquess helped Sissy move the chair and two stools to the table. Somehow he didn’t fit with Eleanor’s idea of a rake. He seemed no different than her brothers. Well, not quite like a brother, but nice, friendly and fun.
‘Goody,’ Sissy said, ‘cakes. We never have cakes unless Martin comes, and not always then.’
‘Martin?’ The Marquess looked enquiringly at Eleanor, but it was Sissy who replied.
‘Mr Martin Brown, he’s—’ began Sissy.
‘A relative of ours,’ Eleanor put in swiftly. Sissy knew the story they’d woven, but sometimes she forgot. ‘He works nearby on his cousin’s farm.’
‘Please sit down, my lord.’ Eleanor bobbed a curtsy and gestured to the chair. She and Sissy took the stools. Eleanor poured tea and Sissy passed him the plate of cakes.
‘Special cakes,’ Sissy said.
He popped one in his mouth. ‘They are delicious.’ He took another and Eleanor smiled. It was nice to have a compliment from someone like the Marquess.
‘How long have you lived here, Miss Brown?’ he asked in formal conversational tones.
‘Almost one month.’
